


Ride the Fader, Ride It Low

by larkscape



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Clubbing, DJ Otabek Altin, Dirty Dancing, Exhibitionism, Flexibility, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Showing Off, Some Feelings Mostly Porn, flexible sex, yes it's a foursome but it's still really about otayuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 12:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: Yuri’s not sure where he dropped his shirt, but he doesn't really care. The hypnotic bassline coming from the speakers is loud enough to throb between his lungs, his head is spinning pleasantly from his second cocktail, and he just wants to feel hands on his skin. Otabek stares at him hungrily from behind the sound table.Yuri folds forward to twist his fingers around his ankles, his ass in the air, and waits for someone to take the bait.Being the DJ's boyfriend is pretty great: Yuri doesn't have to pay cover charges, and nobody bats an eye when he leads Otabek and their two new friends down the hall to the break room.





	Ride the Fader, Ride It Low

**Author's Note:**

> The porn epic is finally done! Thank you to everyone who cheered me on. You're the best. <3 Sorry it took so damn long.
> 
> I have a vested interest in Yuri Plisetsky's flexibility, as I'm sure is obvious at this point. Title from Soul Coughing again because why not.

Yuri’s not sure where he dropped his shirt, but he doesn't really care. The hypnotic bassline coming from the speakers is loud enough to throb between his lungs, his head is spinning pleasantly from his second cocktail, and he just wants to feel hands on his skin. Otabek stares at him hungrily from behind the sound table.

Yuri folds forward to twist his fingers around his ankles, his ass in the air, and waits for someone to take the bait.

It doesn’t take long. A brunet in ripped skinny jeans slides up to him and runs an appreciative hand up his thigh. Yuri can’t make out his face from this angle, but pleasure shoots through him when the guy’s hand clenches around the muscle of one cheek. Yuri throws his head back, leads with his shoulders until he’s mostly upright again, curled backward toward Skinny Jeans with his ass still pushing into his hand and the crown of his head tucked against the guy’s collarbone.

 _Fuck you, Katsudon,_ Yuri thinks. _You want eros?_ This _is eros._ Skinny Jeans’ brown eyes are hazy with drink and desire above him and Yuri feels like a tiger stalking his prey. He wraps a hand around the back of the guy's neck and drags him closer so Yuri can grind back into his already half-hard cock.

Skinny Jeans spreads his hands over Yuri's stomach to pull him flat against him. He's narrow but solid. Mmm, promising. Yuri stretches his arms up and rolls against him in one long, slow ripple, savoring the clench of fingers on his bare waist, the way Skinny Jeans breathes hot against the side of his neck and runs his tongue along the tendon from shoulder to ear. Yuri shivers.

He drops his head back to rest on Skinny Jeans’ shoulder and bites at the soft place under the curve of his jaw. He's rewarded with another thrust against his ass, uncoordinated and sudden, like Skinny Jeans can’t even help it. It’s exactly what Yuri wanted, and yet it’s not enough; he wants skin _everywhere._

He pushes his hips out in invitation, twisting to the syncopated thump of the drums. Skinny Jeans makes a bereft noise against his ear and tries to follow the movement, but he’s not as flexible as Yuri — hardly anyone is as flexible as Yuri — and he can’t manage the bend of spine necessary to keep his cock against Yuri’s ass. Yuuri sucks at his neck, conciliatory.

Yuri’s trick works, though; a shirtless blond with a sixpack stalks closer and wraps his hands over Yuri’s outthrust hips, grinds their cocks together. Skinny Jeans grabs Sixpack’s belt loops and drags him in until Yuri is sandwiched between the two of them, caught in a push-pull arrhythmia of movement. Yuri rolls his hips, forward, back, until the two find the beat and match him. The thin cotton of Skinny Jeans’ shirt catches and rubs at the sweat on his back, Sixpack’s delicious abs flex against his own, there are hands roving all over his chest, his thighs, his neck, into his hair. Two cocks sliding against him. Yuri is in heaven.

 _I wonder if I can make them come in their pants like this._ He feels invincible, predatory, powerful.

Undulating between his two quarries, Yuri glances up at the sound booth and catches Otabek’s heated, lustful gaze in the shifting light. He slows, curving sensually forward into Sixpack and then back against Skinny Jeans in a showy imitation of what he wants to be doing to Otabek — what they could be doing right that very second if Otabek weren’t working.

He watches with undisguised hunger as Otabek’s eyes turn glassy, his fingers going slack on the mixing board. Otabek is queueing up his last track for the night, handing off the headphones to the next DJ, and Yuri has _plans_ for him. He waits until Otabek is halfway across the floor to them before dipping into a side bend, his groin still pinned between Skinny Jeans and Sixpack but his chest and shoulders loose in the stifling air of the club. Otabek reaches him a moment later and strokes proprietarily down his ribs.

“Having fun?” he says against Yuri’s ear.

“Always,” Yuri replies, rubbing his cheek along Otabek’s neck. He twists his hand into Otabek’s shirt and drags him closer. “I found a couple strays. Can we take them home?”

“We can take them in the back,” Otabek counters, slipping his fingers along the closest part of Yuri’s waistband to tease over his hipbone. “But I don’t think you’re done on the dancefloor yet, are you?”

Yuri’s grin is feral. “You know me so well.”

Otabek is a force of nature. He rolls like a breaker along Yuri’s side, drawing Yuri’s arm up to stretch above their heads and using his chest to lift Yuri out of his bend until he’s wedged between his two new friends again with Otabek solid and scorching against his ribs. Yuri feels smothered in the best way, drowning in sweaty skin and needy limbs, the constant sinuous motion of his body the only thing tethering him to reality.

Yuri brings his raised hand down to ruffle Sixpack’s blond hair and leans forward to suck a mark onto the plane of skin just below his collarbone, which earns him a low groan that he feels more than hears. His other hand reaches behind him to grab Skinny Jeans’ ass. He circles his hips back, filthy and slow, enjoying the press of that hard cock against him. The fingers massaging his thigh tighten. Yuri curves back again, rubbing his bare shoulder blades up Skinny Jeans’ toned chest, and turns his head at the end of the motion to speak into his ear over the pounding of the music.

“I’m not gonna keep calling you Skinny Jeans all night. Tell me your name.”

“Alek,” Skinny Jeans replies, twisting so he can speak against Yuri’s jaw. “And you are?” His mouth is pink and wet and Yuri wants to bite it.

“I’m Yuri, and I’m going to suck you off in the hallway in a little bit.” The widening of Alek’s eyes feeds directly into Yuri’s wanton desire. He smiles, wolfish. “But first you’re gonna dance with us some more.”

Before that, though, Yuri willingly succumbs to the temptation in front of him and catches Alek’s bottom lip between his teeth. Traces his tongue along the pink of it. Alek practically melts against him, clutching at his thigh and waist, moaning into Yuri’s mouth and pushing his cock against Yuri’s ass in helpless half-thrusts. _Yes._

Yuri pulls back, tugging Alek’s lip with him for a moment before releasing it and watching, self-satisfied, as Alek’s dark eyes blink slowly open. He looks dazed, lust-drunk on Yuri’s mouth. Yuri smiles smugly and curves his spine in another undulation, shoulders back against Alek’s chest and rolling down vertebra by vertebra, pressing against sternum, abs, groin, arching forward into Sixpack’s naked chest as his hips settle into Alek’s. He stretches up — Sixpack is a few inches taller, exaggerated by the bend in Yuri's knees that keeps his hips loose — and licks his jawline. Sixpack has one hand on Otabek’s back somewhere Yuri can’t see and the other is stroking up and down Yuri’s side, hot and covetous.

“What about you?” Yuri inquires, slightly shaky as Otabek snakes a hand up to pinch his nipple in the middle of the question. “What’s your name, Sixpack?”

Sixpack huffs, a sound that would probably be a laugh if he wasn’t also curving in to fit himself along the whole length of Yuri’s body, and breathes “Roman,” into Yuri’s ear before biting the lobe. Yuri moans, hands clenching involuntarily where they’re still stroking over Roman’s shoulder and Alek’s waist.

“Sexy, isn’t he?” Otabek asks behind him. Roman hums agreement as Alek tugs Yuri closer.

Extracting his earlobe from the delicious heat of Roman’s mouth takes more willpower than Yuri expected. When he finally manages it, he leans his head back against Alek’s neck, grinding his cock forward onto the erection he can feel in Roman’s jeans, and tries to find his voice again. His hand drops from Roman’s shoulder to Otabek’s hip, then gropes around to squeeze his ass and tug him closer so Yuri can rub one hip in torturously slow circles against the front of his pants.

Otabek’s hard, too. Yuri smiles.

“Dancing,” he says, probably not loud enough to be heard over the music but he doesn’t care. “We’re dancing now.”

Yuri twists on the balls of his feet so he’s facing Otabek, Alek and Roman still tight along his sides, and lifts one knee. Otabek really does know him well — he tilts slightly in a fluid motion, drops his arm back so Yuri has the clearance to lift his leg all the way up and settle his calf on Otabek’s shoulder in a standing split with his groin still pressed firm against Otabek. He swivels even closer.

“Oh my _god,”_ Roman says in a choked voice. Alek stares, wordless and wanting, mouth open and fingers digging into Yuri’s waist. Otabek wraps one arm around Yuri’s raised leg, stroking up his calf, while his other hand guides Yuri by the hip to nudge their cocks together.

Their desire is heady in Yuri’s bloodstream; he feels more drunk on it than he does on the alcohol. He reaches out to gather Alek and Roman even closer, arms tight around their waists. They need to keep him penned in or he’s going to melt all over the floor.

He can feel the heartbeat thump of the bass all the way down to his bones and he rocks his hips in time, sliding against Otabek, tipping his head in until their foreheads touch. Otabek’s searing gaze bores into Yuri. The kiss feels like a foregone conclusion, a question already answered; Otabek never could resist his mouth, and the insistent pounding of the music is electric in Yuri’s bloodstream.

Otabek’s lips part readily for him. His tongue is sweet from some cocktail’s residue when Yuri sucks on it. _He_ can’t resist Otabek’s mouth, either; they’re well-matched. He moans greedily against Otabek’s lips and kisses him deeper, messy.

When his breath has gone ragged and his lips tingle from the drag of Otabek’s teeth, Yuri breaks away and hooks his calf tighter over Otabek’s shoulder, then drops into a steep backbend, trusting Otabek’s grip on his ass to hold him steady as he leans so far his hair almost touches the floor. The hands on him slide with the movement, stroking down his sides and over his hips. He stares at Alek from upside-down and blows him a kiss; Alek swallows and sways closer. It feels like victory.

Above him, Otabek runs one hand from the bottom of Yuri’s ribs down to palm him through his jeans; the denim is so thin they’re practically leggings, and the heat of his hand seeps into Yuri’s bones. He rocks into the warm weight of it, which also slides his body against both Alek and Roman where they’re leaning into Otabek and staring ravenously down at the bare stretch of his stomach.

Yuri rolls back upright until they’re chest to chest again, Otabek’s hand trapped between, and grinds his hips in slow figure eights on Otabek's fly while Alek bites the meat of Yuri’s shoulder. Alek and Roman are rubbing shamelessly against him — Alek at least has rhythm; Roman’s just going for it — and Yuri chuckles into the skin of Otabek’s throat.

“The boys are impatient,” he says.

“We’d better speed things along, then,” Otabek replies, his lips twisting into that mischievous little smirk Yuri loves so much. It always means good things.

Sure enough: Otabek runs firm hands along Yuri’s raised leg from thigh to calf, encouraging him straighten the leg entirely and hold the tension there, then catches him by the ankle and steps away, guiding Roman to take his place.

Yuri drops into another backbend against the leverage of Otabek’s hand, both legs completely straight this time, folding back until his head is near his knee and curving his arms down to grab his ankle. An inverted Biellmann, +3 GOE; Yuri is taking home gold for this. The stretch thrums through his nerves in a way that makes him desperate for someone’s hand on his cock again. He lets his abs elongate, focuses on differentiating the individual fingers Otabek has wrapped around his ankle bones, and settles some of his weight on the solid line of Alek’s body against his raised thigh.

He likes the way the club looks from upside down: the lights on their crisscrossing rails hanging from the ceiling, the shape of the crowd, the pounding beat reverberating through the sticky wood floor. The eyes on him. He is a performer, after all; putting on a show is what he does for a living. He releases his ankle and curves both arms gracefully just above the floor while Roman’s chest moves into place under his leg, then detours one hand to stroke lazily up and down the inside of Alek’s calf.

Otabek tugs on his lifted ankle. Yuri takes it for the signal that it is: _stop showing off, Yuri, get back up here._ His abs flex as he draws himself up in a wave of his spine from hips to neck, only tilting his head back to level at the last moment.

Roman stares at him from very close, eyes wide like he’s never seen anything like Yuri in his life. Yuri takes this as his due.

From his position molded along the whole length of Roman’s back, Otabek meets Yuri’s gaze with a lascivious smile and rolls his hips slow against Roman's, forward, up, back, working himself over Roman’s ass and rocking Roman into Yuri's splayed legs in turn.

Yuri tips his face up and Roman meets him halfway.

He kisses like a fight, nipping sharply at Yuri’s lips, catching Yuri’s tongue between his teeth and flicking his tongue against the tip. Yuri likes it. He gives as good as he gets, sucking Roman’s lower lip viciously and not letting go until Roman groans into his mouth. Alek watches them with blatant appreciation, kneading his hand into the muscle of Yuri’s thigh.

Yuri’s knee bends against Roman’s chest when Otabek tugs his ankle again and sets his teeth to the jut of bone. Yuri shivers and arches, tilting sideways into Alek’s chest, then leans further to wrap an arm around Alek's shoulders and mouth at the sensitive spot under his jaw he found earlier. Alek moans, his eyes sliding closed.

What Yuri intends to do now involves too much twisting to maintain full split extension, so he drops his leg from Roman's shoulder to fold tight and high around his waist. Behind Roman, Otabek catches his calf and tucks it along his ribs. Yuri slides down Alek’s chest, licking over his sweat-sticky skin until he reaches the collar of his shirt and then nipping at it through the cotton, sliding his arm down to clutch at Alek’s hip.

Otabek, thankfully, understands rhythm better than Roman does and keeps up the exquisite rolling motion of his hips, guiding Roman’s thrusts into the cradle of Yuri’s pelvis. Yuri feels the beat pulse through his whole body. He steers Alek around as he bends further, adjusting him by the hip until he gets the perfect angle, and tilts his head.

Alek trembles with pleasure when Yuri’s mouth closes around his hard cock through his jeans. Yuri breathes warm along the length of it.

“Weren’t we going to take this to the hallway?” Alek inquires, breathless, hardly audible over the music.

“Hallways are overrated,” Yuri replies and swoops in again.

Yuri is greedy for skin; he wants to get his mouth around Alek properly, suck him off like he promised. His fingers fumble at Alek’s belt, but Otabek pinches his knee in warning. _Not on the dancefloor._ Yuri ought to know better — he’s been warned by the bouncers for this before — but he's impatient now. He skates his palms up the flat planes of Alek's stomach, dragging his shirt up with them, and licks at his navel on the way back to upright. Alek moans, low and dirty.

When Otabek releases his knee, Yuri slides his leg down, dragging it along Roman’s side, and clutches a fistful of Alek’s shirt.

“C’mon, I’ve got the perfect place.”

One of the perks of being the DJ’s boyfriend: all Yuri needs to do is nod at one of the bartenders and they have free rein of the break room. He snags a handful of condom-and-lube packets from the dispenser box on the wall as he passes it and tows Alek down the hallway, through the door at the end, Otabek and Roman right behind. It's not a large room and the light is terrible, but there's a leather couch against the back wall, screened from immediate view by a rack of hanging coats, and there's plenty enough space for their purposes.

The door clicks shut behind Otabek and the noise of the club recedes to a background rumble.

“You,” Yuri says, imperious, steering Alek by the shirt until he's seated on the couch, “are going to take your damn pants off and let me suck you.” He drops the handful of condoms next to him.

“Hell yeah, I am,” Alek replies with a leer, already working his belt buckle loose.

“Then I'm going to fuck you,” and Yuri points to Roman, who grins and nods readily, “while Otabek fucks me. Yeah?”

Alek and Roman are both eager, and Otabek — oh hell, Yuri has learned to recognize that expression, that particular subtle tightening of brow. There’s work to do. He saunters over to where Otabek stands near the door, swaying his hips for the feel of it, the stretch and pull of muscle, and for the way it makes their two guests stare.

“Do you like the sound of that?” Yuri murmurs into Otabek’s jawline. If Otabek’s unhappy, Yuri has zero problem with changing his plans. He knows where his priorities are.

He always has to remind himself to check in, because Otabek is bad at stating his own desires. Otabek doesn’t speak up unless something is really bothering him, far more comfortable with ignoring his own longings and catering to others, and Yuri knows he himself has a tendency to run roughshod over other people’s wants to begin with, which is not the ideal combination. It's led to more than one fight, Yuri screaming, “Just tell me what you _want,”_ and Otabek replying, calm, “I want what _you_ want,” which is the most infuriating non-answer Yuri's ever heard in his life.

Yuri has to trick the words out of him — sometimes with pirozhki or cat memes, or taping his feet for him after a long day of practice, but at times like this Yuri will squeeze him through his pants, lick his collarbones until he’s whining and distracted, whisper filthy things in his ear. Get him out of his own head. Now that Yuri’s figured out some effective strategies, it’s _really_ not a hardship. Yuri knows that Otabek is wise to his machinations, but he also succumbs to them more easily lately, so Yuri thinks that it must work both ways.

It’s working now; Yuri ghosts one hand down the zip of Otabek’s pants, scrapes his fingernail over the weave of the denim, and Otabek’s breathing stutters.

“Tell me,” Yuri whispers.

“Yura,” Otabek moans, breathy, then turns his head with purpose to nuzzle against Yuri’s ear. “I’ve still got your come in my ass from this afternoon.” Yuri fails to bite back a helpless noise at that. “It’s all I could think about during my set, but I don’t mind waiting for more. I know you want to fuck Roman.”

“You’re not wrong,” Yuri begins, and has to swallow to make his tone even. “But I also really want your cock inside me. God, Beka, I want you _everywhere.”_ That statement gets a gratifying reaction: Otabek moans and bucks against him, bites the curve of his throat, and Yuri knows everything is fine. “And when we get home…” He pulls Otabek closer. “I’ll give you _exactly_ what you need.”

Yuri runs one hand into his hair and guides him down into an open-mouthed kiss, filthy and full of promise, their tongues sliding together and setting Yuri’s blood racing. Otabek hums into it, presses deeper like he’s trying to devour him, and Yuri’s focus narrows to the tangle of lips and tongue and teeth, Otabek’s hands strong on the nape of his neck and kneading his ass, the slick noise of their mouths parting and meeting again.

Otabek nibbles on Yuri’s lip as he pulls back and Yuri has to steady himself against Otabek’s chest. He wants to follow that mouth wherever it goes.

“Come on,” Otabek says, walking Yuri backward toward the couch. “Your strays need attention.”

 _Yes, they do,_ Yuri thinks with a slow smile. _And so do I._ He gestures over Otabek’s shoulder for Roman to follow and turns at the last moment to look down at where Alek lounges on the couch. Obviously Yuri isn’t the only one who likes to put on a show — Alek’s shirtless now, knees spread wide, his jeans undone and tugged down just enough to get his cock out, and as Yuri watches he strokes himself lazily, eyebrows lifted in coy invitation.

It’s a substantial cock, the shaft heavy in Alek's hand, the head flushed dark. Alek swipes his thumb over the single glistening drop of precome at the tip.

Yuri would very much like to get his mouth on that. He might be drooling.

“Are you or are you not going to blow him?” Otabek asks as he nudges Yuri forward another half-step.

“Jeez, Beka, let me enjoy the view for a minute,” Yuri complains mildly with a bump of his shoulder to Otabek’s chest. “You're right, though; I have a promise to keep.”

Yuri sinks fluidly to the floor, balanced on the balls of his feet with his knees spread wide against the front of the couch, and leans in to exhale hot air over the head of Alek’s cock where it emerges from his fingers. The breath catches in Alek’s throat with an audible click. Yuri bumps his nose into Alek’s fingers — _move your hand, that’s my job_ — and when Alek draws back Yuri meets his eyes and extends his tongue.

He licks up the underside of Alek’s cock from balls to tip, holding his gaze all the while, and watches smugly as Alek’s throat bobs around a harsh swallow.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Alek asks, though the teasing is undermined by the breathless quality of his voice.

In response, Yuri seals his lips over the head and sucks. Alek slams one hand into the couch with a cut-off yelp.

 _Is that all I’ve got,_ Yuri thinks. _I’ll fucking_ show _you what I’ve got._ He swirls his tongue over the head to work up a little extra saliva, then — careful not to telegraph with the rest of his body lest he ruin the surprise — pitches forward to take the full length of Alek’s cock straight down his throat. Alek stiffens like Yuri just touched his cock with a battery, gasping.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Roman murmurs, faint, somewhere behind him. “Where did you find this guy?”

Alek is beyond words. Yuri swallows around his mouthful and basks in their reactions.

“You only get him for the evening,” Otabek says to Roman.

“I’ll take it.”

Good, Otabek is getting distracted, drawn out enough to let some of his possessiveness show through. Yuri pulls back slightly, zigzagging his tongue up the shaft of Alek’s cock and drawing the lightest touch of his teeth along the topside to the tune of Alek’s breathy encouragements.

Much as he loves giving head, Yuri is starting to feel a little bereft. He came out tonight because he wanted hands all over him and there’s not nearly enough of that happening for his taste. He reaches out to grab one of Alek’s hands and guides it to his hair, sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks when Alek catches a fistful of blonde strands and tugs. Alek threads his other hand into Yuri’s hair to hold him steady and fucks Yuri’s mouth, dragging his cock over Yuri’s tongue and bumping the back of his throat on each thrust. A pleased groan spills out of Yuri. It’s not everything he wants, but it’s definitely a step in the right direction.

As if he read the thoughts right from Yuri’s head, Otabek moves close enough to press his leg against Yuri’s bowed back, drawing Roman along with him. He knows exactly how greedy Yuri is for skin contact — it’s what started them on this path to begin with, all those months ago, Yuri wanting to be overwhelmed and Otabek wanting to give that to him — and he’s always been good at predicting Yuri’s impulses. Yuri whimpers and rubs shamelessly against his pant leg, pinned between Alek’s hands in his hair keeping his mouth stuffed at one end and the steel of Otabek’s calf at the other.

 _Yes,_ he thinks, hedonistic. _This is more like it. More, Beka._ He moans around Alek’s cock, the sound chopped into a staccato rhythm by Alek’s thrusts.

Otabek is perfectly happy to take charge when it’s someone else’s pleasure he’s pursuing; only for himself does he shrink into reticence. Here, it’s Yuri he’s seeking to please, and if that means manhandling a stranger then that’s what he’ll do. Yuri loves that about him, his single-minded dedication to his chosen task, his bold assurance — pushing Roman down behind Yuri with one hand, prodding him closer with a methodical application of knee to his back until Yuri is covered from nape of neck to tailbone by solid muscle — and it makes his intermittent shyness all the more endearing.

Not that Yuri has much mind left to think about it, happily drowning in the glut of skin surrounding him. Roman is a searing pleasure all along his spine, Alek’s fingers sharp on his scalp and cock thick in his throat, Otabek’s leg secure against his ribs.

Behind him, Roman opens his pants and settles all the way to the floor. His knees are thick and bony on Yuri’s sides, but the folded position lets him press the head of his cock against the place where Yuri’s waistband dips low to expose his tailbone. He rubs it up and down the cleft of Yuri’s ass a couple times. The trail of precome he leaves behind dries cool on the warm skin.

Yuri stuffs his mouth down around Alek's cock and sucks, braces his hands on the floor, stretches his legs out along the front of the couch. He’s sitting almost on top of Roman’s feet.

Fuck, he likes hearing their gasps. Neither Roman nor Alek seem to know what to do with a guy who can do effortless splits. Even Otabek reacts with a wanting moan, and he sees Yuri do this sort of thing all the time. Maybe he's feeling the same thrill that’s driving Yuri's pulse: the thrill of turning on strangers, of inspiring so much desire that he can feel it in the air.

Yuri tilts his hips, rolling forward, mindful of the way his legs rotate — it would be all too easy to injure something like this if Roman decided to move suddenly, which is why he doesn't usually go all-out when fucking is imminent, but he wants to hear those shocked groans come out of them again. He keeps his nose tucked into the curls around Alek’s cock, nods just slightly to encourage Alek to keep fucking his mouth, then curves his spine until his pelvis is tilted all the way down to the floor with his legs spread wide and his erection trapped achingly underneath him on the unforgiving tile.

It's worth it. Roman makes a noise that sounds like it’s being dragged to the surface by a dredge net, guttural and rumbling, and leans forward to nudge the head of his cock over Yuri’s tailbone again. Alek hisses, the rocking of his hips gone sharp and out of rhythm. Otabek bends his knee to keep up the gentle pressure on Yuri’s ribs. Steady, approving. _Yes._

“I want you to fuck me like _that,”_ Roman says breathily.

A flirtatious moan rises in Yuri’s throat as he drags his mouth up and off of Alek, and once his lips are free he replies with a laugh, “It won’t work very well on the couch, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’d like to see that,” Alek says, heated, fingers twisting in Yuri's hair. “Fuck, _please.”_ When Yuri looks up, Alek’s eyes are very dark.

Yuri wants more, wants to suffocate in naked skin, wants to fuck Roman and blow Alek and get buried under a landslide of Otabek, wants _all of it right now,_ but they're not quite there yet. He tilts his hips back up, which has the wonderful side effect of rubbing Roman's cock along his low back. Mouths his way up Alek’s length to swallow him down again. That’s better, closer to what he needs; he presses one hand to his own hard cock, squeezes himself through denim so tissue-thin it barely deserves the name. Impatient for friction.

A shirt drops onto his shoulder — Otabek’s navy tee, still warm with lingering body heat. Otabek leans down until his hair tickles Yuri’s ear.

“Want me to prep Roman for you?”

 _Oh, fuck yes._ Yuri moans an affirmation around Alek's cock, already picturing Roman's six-pack abs clenching as Otabek stuffs him full of fingers, slicks him up for Yuri's cock. Otabek smiles and nibbles Yuri's earlobe. Then he disappears from against Yuri's side as he reaches for a packet of lube and the greedy, animal part of Yuri, which is the majority of him right now, bristles at the lack.

He doesn’t like Otabek moving out of reach.

He’ll deal, though, if it means getting them closer to Yuri’s endgame plan. But Otabek murmurs something to Roman, and Yuri can’t hold back a disapproving noise when the solid weight at his back vanishes.

“No,” he whines, pulling off Alek again. “Where are you going?” And shit, he should be paying more attention to demonstrating his enviable blowjob skills but both Otabek _and_ Roman leaving touching distance is too much to endure. Alek whimpers, his fingers tugging disapprovingly at Yuri's hair, but he lets Yuri move.

“Don't you want me to get him naked?” Otabek asks with a tiny smile.

“Yes, obviously, but do it _here.”_

“This is why there's a couch, Yura. I respect your knees too much to let you fuck on the floor.”

“Beka.” Yuri stares up at him, at his dark eyes and messy hair and bare chest, at the way Otabek returns the look with just as much appreciation. “Come here.” He holds out an imperious hand and, when Otabek leans down, drags him into a hard kiss. _“Fuck,_ I love you. Don't go far.”

“Of course,” Otabek says and kisses him again, slow and lingering this time, soft lips and lazy slide of tongue. Then he pulls away and steers Roman around to stand in front of the couch to Yuri's right.

Yuuri lowers his mouth back onto Alek's cock, but he's distracted now, keeping his sight trained on the other two. Otabek leans in to kiss Roman, one hand around the back of his neck and the other tugging on his open waistband in wordless suggestion. Roman takes the hint. Otabek bends with him, keeping his mouth occupied as Roman shoves his jeans down and kicks them off along with this shoes.

They look so good like that. Roman straightens again, fully naked, and together they're a vision: acres of skin and roaming hands, their chests pressed together, breathy wet noises as they kiss, Roman catching Otabek by the belt and rutting against him. Yuri wants to be in the middle of it.

“Hey,” Alek chides, and right, Yuri is supposed to be blowing him.

“Don’t try to tell me you’re not distracted, too,” Yuri says, glaring a little for effect, but reapplies himself to the task. He has a reputation to uphold.

“They are— nnh— compelling, but I think I like your mouth on me better. Oh god.”

Yuri doesn’t answer, because his tongue is too busy drawing messy swirls on the underside of Alek’s cock. He slides his mouth up until just the tip remains between his lips and sucks gently, maddening light pressure that makes Alek’s grip on his hair tighten with need. Holds there, teasing, until the pitch of Alek’s low moan changes to something questioning.

Then Yuri slams all the way down again. _Shit._ He’s going to ruin his voice, but the heavy stretch in his throat is so satisfying that he doesn’t care if he can only growl for the rest of the night. There’s a high whine escaping through Alek’s teeth that wobbles when Yuri swallows.

He eases back, lets the crown slip from his throat, works his tongue under it. Otabek is pushing Roman down, laying him out along the leather cushions with his head almost in Alek's lap, and Yuri folds one leg under himself to give Otabek room to kneel next to him. The other leg stays extended. Something about the mild elastic stretch in his hip coupled with the cock sitting thick and heavy in his mouth makes him feel wild, voracious, feral. He sucks sharply, trying to goad Alek into giving him something to fight against; Alek obliges, groaning curses, bucking his hips up as he traps Yuri’s head between his hands.

“Fucking— _yeah,_ god yes,” Alek says, trembling.

Yuri twists forward to nudge his shoulders further between Alek’s spread knees and wraps one hand around Alek’s cock, holding it steady, squeezing it as he tilts his head against the pressure of Alek’s grip. Pulls off to mouth down one side of the shaft. It gives him the perfect sideways view of Otabek tearing open a packet of lube with his teeth and pouring the contents onto his fingers.

When those glistening fingers disappear between Roman’s thighs, Yuri flattens his tongue on Alek's length and licks up to the tip for a better vantage point. Otabek has magic in his hands and Yuri doesn’t want to miss a moment of the show.

“Nngh,” Roman chokes out, aching up, one hand flying to grab his cock and the other clawing at the back of the couch. Otabek must have slipped a finger inside. Yeah, Otabek’s wearing a wicked little smile as he leans down to lick Roman’s nipple. Maybe two fingers.

Yuri makes a happy sound and circles his tongue over Alek. Otabek’s gaze shoots to him.

“Yura,” he says, gravelly with want, and then he's leaning over and kissing Yuri around Alek's cock with his fingers still buried in Roman's ass. It's— wow, yes, exactly what Yuri didn't even know he needed. Otabek is a mind-reader. Everything is spit-sloppy and blood-hot, and broken noises tumble from Alek’s slack mouth as Otabek’s tongue traces the wet line of Yuri’s lips where they’re stretched over Alek’s shaft.

Roman strokes himself as his hips roll on Otabek’s hand, and he tips his head back to look, glazed, up at Alek. “What did we get ourselves into?” he asks weakly.

“I, _fffuck,”_ Alek replies, staring down, and Yuri can see his eyes going dark and heated at the sight of two mouths wrapped around him. “Oh fuck, I don't know, but I like it.”

Then Roman cries out, and Otabek must be doing something complicated with his fingers because his lips are slow and slack against Yuri’s and his eyes have that inward-facing focus that means he’s concentrating. Probably that fluttery thing with his fingertips, like he's playing a piano trill on your prostate. It always turns Yuri's limbs to quicksand when he does that.

Yuri twists his mouth on Alek’s cock and bumps Otabek’s nose with his own. _Hey, go back to what you were doing with Roman._ Otabek is distracted, and he’s an interloper in this blowjob party, anyway. It’s Yuri's show.

Otabek withdraws with a last, lingering swipe of his tongue up Alek’s length. Yuri takes over with enthusiasm, slipping fluidly up until he can draw the head back into his mouth. His lips glide smoothly — between Otabek and Yuri’s own efforts, Alek’s cock is slippery with spit and precome. Fuck, the weight of it feels nice on his tongue. He sucks again and Alek makes a shattered sound.

Yuri lifts up just enough to form words, his lips brushing over the flushed head. “Come on, I want to taste you.” Then he licks sloppily down again as Alek bucks helplessly into his mouth.

“Fuck, _fuck, ah—”_

Fingers dig into Yuri’s scalp, strong thighs compress around his shoulders, and Alek comes on his tongue, bitter and musky. Yuri swallows every drop. It’s a gorgeous view: the line of Alek’s tensed abs, his bare chest heaving, his neck long, with a red mark under his jaw where Yuri was lavishing attention earlier. _I have excellent taste,_ Yuri thinks, self-satisfied.

Dark eyes blink open in the aftermath, and it’s only when Alek’s hands slacken their grip that Yuri realizes just how hard they’d been pulling his hair.

“Fucking _hell,”_ Alek says slowly, sounding dazed. “Ah, sorry, didn’t mean to yank—”

“Nnn, it’s fine. Good.” Yuri’s voice is a little raspy, but not as bad as he’d feared. He nuzzles into the seam of Alek’s hip and exhales there; he likes the pressure of Alek’s legs around him. It’s grounding.

“Yura,” Otabek says, and even just the one word is heavy with desire.

“Is he ready?” Yuri asks, a little muffled.

“Yes.”

 _“Please,”_ Roman whines, and oh yeah, Otabek definitely did the fluttery thing. That is the voice of someone fallen under the spell of Otabek’s magic hands.

Yuri extricates himself from the clutch of Alek’s legs and scoots toward the other end of the couch. Otabek holds out a condom packet with the hand not pumping torturously slowly into Roman, and it’s already torn open for him because Otabek is just that much of a gentleman.

“Put it on for me,” Yuri says, low and commanding. He can _see_ Otabek’s pupils dilate as he nods.

Yuri makes a show of peeling off his jeans, teasing the waistband down under all of their watchful, appreciative gazes, but he’s too impatient to carry it for long. Off they go. He wants more than just eyes on him.

Once he’s naked, he knee-walks to Otabek’s side and leans an elbow on his shoulder. Otabek graces him with one of those tiny smiles, then withdraws his hand from between Roman’s legs; Roman whimpers with the loss, twisting. Yuri knows the feeling. At the touch of Alek’s fingers in his short blond hair, Roman makes a greedy noise and surges closer to drop his head firmly in Alek’s lap, mouthing the nearest hipbone. Apparently Alek likes that, judging from how he folds over Roman’s head and moans.

Yuri has _exceptional_ taste. They look like a Renaissance painting, if Michelangelo had ever painted two guys fucking on a leather couch in the back of a club.

Otabek shifts back from the edge of the couch and wordlessly directs Yuri up between Roman’s spread knees, then extracts the condom and places it on the tip of Yuri’s cock with nimble fingers. He has such wonderful hands. Powerful, elegant, goddamn _mystical._ His fist closes around Yuri as he rolls the latex down and the calculated ripple of his fingers is devastating. Localized earthquakes rattle the marrow in Yuri’s bones. He has to grab Roman’s knees to keep steady.

 _“Hnn,_ Beka,” he wheezes through clenched teeth, “you magnificent bastard, _fuck._ That’s. Yeah.”

“Good?” Otabek asks in his most innocent tone. Yuri is torn between the desire to kiss him and the desire to swat him on his criminally attractive ass. _Pinch his nipples. That’ll— that’ll show him._

“You know exactly how good, you jerk. Shit. Do that again.”

Otabek smiles at him all slow and sticky-sweet and does it again. Fucking _magic hands._

“Beka, do you, _nngh,_ do you _actually_ play piano?” Yuri’s mouth runs without conscious input since all his brain cells are occupied with the sensation of fingers doing indescribable things to his cock. “How do you do that, ff— _fuck.”_

He wants to melt into it, but Otabek’s grip loosens and Yuri’s mind comes back online and he remembers that he’s on a mission. He dragged all these sexy people into this room for the purpose of making a very sweaty Yuri sandwich and he won’t be put off any longer.

He collects himself.

“Roman,” he says, and his voice is still a touch wobbly from the aftershocks of Otabek’s hand but it’s got all the heat he was aiming for.

“Mmmuh?” Roman moans in reply. Alek turns to watch, too.

Yuri pushes Roman’s knee up toward his chest and out, spreads him wide. It looks like Otabek did a thorough job, not that Yuri expected any less; Roman’s ass is open and wet with lube, and he gasps when Yuri drags a thumb over his hole.

“Yes,” Roman says, whining, breathless, “yes, now, _fuck me.”_

That’s all the encouragement Yuri needs. He guides himself forward until his cock nudges against the entrance, and then he pushes a little more and Roman stretches around him and he’s sliding in.

Roman’s _hot_ inside, scorching, tight. Yuri moans and presses Roman’s knee back further, tipping him up, then thrusts in about halfway. A groan claws its way out of Yuri’s throat. _Damn,_ that’s good. He waits for a moment as Roman squeezes around him and writhes for more of his cock, braces himself— and shoves in the rest of the way.

All Roman’s muscles clench; he arches and shouts. Yuri’s vertebrae lock with pleasure.

“Ah— _ahh fuck—”_ He has to pause there, buried completely, and force his held breath from his chest before he can move again.

Slowly, he draws out. Fucks back in. _Grinds._ Roman tosses his head and presses gasping pleas into Alek’s thigh, so Yuri does it again, and again, losing track of anything that isn’t directly related to his cock sliding in Roman’s hole.

Warm arms come up around Yuri’s sides, warm skin all down his back — Otabek is up on the couch now, curled around him, tucking his chin over Yuri’s shoulder and wonderfully, deliciously naked.

“Look at that,” Otabek whispers, nodding to the place where Yuri’s cock disappears into Roman’s body.

It’s a hell of a sight. Yuri pulls most of the way out and works himself back in oh so slow for Otabek’s viewing pleasure. For his own pleasure, too; the hungry grip of Roman’s ass is melting him, sending tongues of fire along his veins to turn him liquid and molten. Otabek slides a hand up, rubs his thumb in slow arcs over the line of Yuri’s ribs, sets his open mouth to Yuri’s neck and licks the skin there. Pouring gasoline on the blaze.

“Beka,” Yuri mumbles. He can hardly manage to wrap his lips around the name. Another groan tumbles out of him and he thrusts harder, faster, shifting his shoulders against Otabek’s chest.

Otabek knows. Otabek always knows what he means, what he needs. The hand on Yuri’s side disappears, fishes around in the pile of foil packets next to his leg, and then there are slick fingers questing behind his balls, circling his entrance, and Yuri almost laughs with how much he welcomes the touch.

The next rock back opens him on Otabek’s finger, and when he drives forward again into Roman’s tight hole the finger follows, working deeper. Alek reaches out to play with Roman’s nipples, Roman makes a guttural noise and clamps down on Yuri’s cock, Otabek crooks his knuckle into Yuri’s prostate — Yuri collapses forward, forehead to Roman’s sternum, and chokes on overwhelming sensation. Fucking _hell,_ it’s all so good, he needs—

There’s a hand on his thigh, tugging.

“Mm, Yura,” Otabek says, adding a second finger as Yuri’s hips thrust. Yuri moans. “They wanted you to…” He trails off and tugs again, and Yuri slows, lets himself be moved. Otabek’s ideas are always worth listening to.

Shifting his weight to one knee, Otabek pulls Yuri’s leg down along the length of the couch until it’s fully extended behind him and Yuri’s foot is wedged up against the couch arm, then resettles so he’s straddling the thigh. He brushes his hand over Yuri’s other leg, still folded next to Roman’s hip.

“Ah,” Yuri says.

 _I want you to fuck me like_ that, Roman had said.

“Beka. You’re a genius.”

Yuri sits halfway up with one arm braced next to Roman’s shoulder and lifts his folded knee up along the back of the couch, over Roman’s leg. Otabek’s fingers inside him have stilled, following along as he moves. Yuri has to— he has to pull out to make it work, dammit, but Alek sees where this is going even if Roman’s too far gone to do more than whine, bereft, as Yuri’s cock leaves him empty. Yuri holds Alek’s gaze and twists to stretch his leg out, hooks his heel over Roman’s shoulder. The ball of his foot presses into Alek’s ribs.

Front splits. Yuri is going to fuck a guy in front splits. _Hell_ yes.

It seems Alek has stopped breathing. Yuri chuckles to himself. Roman’s eyes are squeezed shut, his hands clenching on Alek’s denim-clad knee— and why didn’t Alek take his jeans all the way off when they started? Fuck it, Yuri doesn’t care right now. He digs his foot into Alek’s bare side.

“Scoot.”

“Holy shit, yes _sir,”_ Alek says, gasping, and slides himself forward. In the narrow space created between his ass and the back of the couch, Yuri straightens his leg the rest of the way, pointing his foot elegantly.

Roman’s eyes fly open when the back of Yuri’s knee flattens on his chest.

“Wha— oh my _god,”_ he groans. “You’re _unreal.”_

Yuri smiles smugly down at him. Pushes back a little with his toes so he has the space to line his cock up.

“Do it, fuck, do it _now,_ oh—”

He thrusts in, all at once. Roman’s voice fails. Yuri doesn’t have much room or leverage to work with, but it feels _amazing_ — the familiar tension in his hamstrings as he holds the stretch, the lust and awe radiating from Roman and Alek, the slick throb of Roman’s ass where Yuri’s cock is buried. He rocks his hips; it gets even better.

Then Otabek leans close and moves his fingers again, and Yuri’s vision goes splotchy at the edges.

“Ah fuck, _nngh,”_ Yuri groans, bucking. He is going to lose his damn mind like this, pistoning in the limited range between Roman’s blazing heat and Otabek’s clever fingers. His whole body is thrumming, jangling with need.

There’s not enough _skin._

Otabek draws his free hand up Yuri’s back, middle finger riding over the knobs of his spine, and Yuri shivers with it, unfurls like a fern frond, arching over the touch until he’s curved backwards and licking Otabek’s pectoral muscle upside down. There’s low, impressed cursing coming from someone; he can’t tell if it’s Roman or Alek, or maybe both of them in tandem. It races in his veins. He can’t thrust much now, not all stretched out and posed like this, but Roman keeps moving under him and the way he squirms on Yuri’s cock is just as good. And hell, the tight arch in his low back just sharpens everything, converts Roman’s desperate writhing and Otabek's fingers rocking in his ass into liquid fire that ignites Yuri from the inside, from his blood out. He brings one arm up to cup the back of Otabek’s head. Shorn hair ruffles under his touch like velvet.

The hand on Yuri's back spreads solid and intimate between his shoulder blades, supporting him, and he seals his mouth over Otabek’s nipple and sucks to show his appreciation — and to make Otabek’s fingers clench. The pressure of those sharp fingertips digging into his back muscles goes straight to Yuri’s cock, makes him moan.

Suddenly there’s a palm dragging up from his hip bones, catching on sweat-tacky skin as it wanders up his abs. Yuri has to release Otabek’s nipple from between his lips and uncurl so he can push into the touch. When he’s upright again, he sees that it’s Alek, leaning over Roman and flushed with desire as he watches his hand move over Yuri’s taut stomach.

“Are you a gymnast or something?” Alek asks.

“Figure skater,” Otabek answers before Yuri can, and it's a good thing, too, because Otabek is also working a third finger in and Yuri might have forgotten how to process words just now. He moves under their hands, between Roman’s spread thighs, and tries to hold his splits while they liquefy his mind. “And he does ballet,” Otabek continues.

“Of course, I should've guessed. So flexible.”

That palm skids along Yuri's abs again, up to his ribs and back down, and he melts with it.

“Touch me,” he pants, rolling his hips as much as he's able, grinding his cock into Roman's hole. One of his hands is still wrapped around the back of Otabek's neck; he reaches for Alek with the other. “Touch me, _god,_ I want—”

Yuri twists and Roman sobs, grabbing his own cock as Yuri pushes deeper. Fire licks up Yuri’s spine and it bows him backwards again, forcing his head onto Otabek's shoulder with a strangled cry. Roman is so _hot_ squeezing around him. This tiny room is overwarm anyway, the air thick with sex and sweat, but the heat of Roman's body is brighter still, a forge — and Yuri is iron in the crucible, glowing and molten. A shudder works through him.

With a groan, Alek presses both hands to Yuri's stomach. Another firebrand of pleasure, another frisson of heat under Yuri's skin. Otabek's arm comes up across his chest, pulls him in until he's locked up against Otabek's body, and Yuri feels like someone just doused him in lighter fluid and struck a match. All that skin is _his,_ his to touch, his to burn himself on. Otabek, Alek, Roman. All his. He clutches weakly at the back of Otabek's neck, drops his other hand from Alek's forearm to brace on the inside of Roman's thigh and rocks into him, moans low and loud.

There's so much going on that he has to squeeze his eyes shut and seek out Roman's cock by feel rather than sight. Vision is too overwhelming. Roman's hand is already working over the shaft and Yuri feels a little too scattered to take over, so instead he laces their fingers together and assists.

“Yeah,” Roman says, thrusting into their joined grip, “yes, god, keep— keep doing that. Jesus, Yuri.”

Alek lets out a broken sound, his hands falling still on Yuri's skin.

“Hey, no, don't stop,” Yuri chides breathlessly, blinking his eyes open and moving under Alek’s touch. There’s — Otabek’s magic fingers curl inside him and he’s helpless against the sweltering wave of pleasure that blazes along his nerves, the cry that escapes him — there’s never enough skin against him. He wants to _drown_ in it. Wants to catch fire under their touch.

Alek leans over further to run his hands up to Yuri's collarbones, which puts his bare stomach directly over Roman's face.

Roman catches a mouthful of trim flesh and nips.

“Ah, _fuck,”_ Alek gasps.

“Off,” Roman commands, tugging on Alek’s jeans with his free hand. _“Off,_ take them off, I want to blow you, _Jesus,_ I’m going to swallow you whole. Fucking— _off.”_

Alek’s eyes go huge as he scrambles to comply. It’s clear now why he hadn’t pulled the jeans all the way off before: they’re molded to his legs like wet leather. The muscles in his forearms bunch and jump as he works to peel the denim down.

Yuri grudgingly approves the loss of his touch because it means increasing the net nakedness on this couch.

“You need, hah, stretchier pants,” Yuri tells him, leaning back against Otabek’s chest. “Spandex exists for a reason.”

“But these make my ass look fantastic.”

“Truer words,” Otabek mumbles into Yuri’s neck, and Yuri suppresses a laugh.

“What?” Alek says, sounding affronted.

“Beka’s an ass man. He— _hnn, fuck—_ he a-appreciates your efforts.”

“I,” Roman says, “appreciate your efforts in _removing_ them.” Then he cries out as Yuri thrusts again, short but sharp.

Alek finally shoves his ridiculously tight skinny jeans away and Roman wastes no time, practically inhaling his cock as soon as it's back in range. It’s still mostly soft when Roman’s lips draw it in.

“Ah, wait,” Alek says and hisses through his teeth. “Wait, shit, too much—”

Roman releases him. “Too soon?”

“Dammit, yeah. _Fuck._ I wanted—” Roman plants a slow, careful kiss to the tip and Alek cuts off with a whine high in his throat.

“You two are gorgeous,” Yuri says, “but there needs to be more touching.” Alek threads one hand into Roman’s hair and runs the other down his chest, watching Yuri the entire time. “No, no,” Yuri corrects, “more touching _me._ Ah,” and he jerks as a twist of Otabek’s fingers derails him, _“god, Beka—”_

The fluttery thing. A skill like that can’t be overused. Yuri is reduced to whimpering noises, snapping his hips and making Roman moan while Otabek dismantles him from the inside.

Alek chuckles weakly. “Demanding, isn’t he?” he asks Otabek. When he gets a raised eyebrow in return, he adds, “I like it,” and reaches out to flick Yuri’s nipples. Yuri bucks and it starts a chain reaction: Otabek’s fingers sliding inside him, Yuri’s thighs tensing, forcing him further into Roman’s tight hole, Roman squeezing around him with a noisy inhale and twisting in Alek’s lap.

 _Fucking hell, so tight._ Roman’s getting close, Yuri can feel it in the way his muscles keep clenching inside. He musters enough brain power to grind in again, flexing his spread thighs, and gets a stuttering groan in return.

Otabek flattens his hand on Yuri’s low back. “Yura?”

“Yes, now, _now—”_

“Bend a little,” Otabek says, pressing just slightly, and down Yuri goes, felled like a tree, dropping onto Roman with a delighted little sound; Roman’s half-turned with Alek’s cock on his lips, so Yuri ends up face-first in bicep and ribs with his hand caught under him, still curled around Roman’s cock and laced with his fingers. He’s looking at the side of his own knee, flattened over Roman’s other shoulder. It all feels _so good,_ Roman sweaty and writhing under him, slick around his cock, Alek’s hands on his shoulders, Otabek’s touch electric on the base of his spine. His body all stretched out, the elastic warmth in his legs. He points his toes to accentuate the feeling.

“I didn’t mean for you to bend that much,” Otabek teases.

“Beka,” Yuri says. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Otabek folds himself over Yuri, presses close and feverish all down his back, and whispers, “Anything you want,” into his ear.

Those skillful fingers disappear from his ass and Yuri feels unacceptably empty for all of a second, but then Otabek’s cock replaces them, nudging against his entrance, and it’s ten times better. With how long Otabek spent fingering him, he’s loose and open, and the thick head slips inside easily, slick-smooth like latex; Yuri has no idea when Otabek found the time to put on a condom and he doesn’t even give a damn. _Oh fuck, that’s amazing._ Yuri tilts his pelvis, drawing Otabek in and sliding his own cock inside the tight ring of Roman’s hole. Everything is blisteringly hot. The moan that fills the room comes from three throats.

Yuri needs to _move,_ but he has no leverage in splits. He bends both knees, the one he’s leaning over and the one pinned under Otabek, digs his feet into the leather upholstery, _shoves—_ forward into Roman's slippery heat clutching at him, back onto Otabek’s thick cock splitting him wide. Again, and again, _fuck,_ he’s caught up in the push-pull of their grip, driving in and out and in. White-hot iron, taking shape between the hammer and the anvil.

“Hah, yes,” Yuri pants, squeezing his hand around Roman’s cock in the cramped space between them, speeding their strokes. _“Hnngh, fuck.”_

This, _this_ is what he was searching for tonight — he’s smothered between two searing bodies, wrapped up in arms and chests and fiery mouths kissing his skin. Alek drops over them; a third body pressing in on him, more hands gliding over him, holding him steady as his awareness narrows.

Roman still has no sense of external rhythm, but that’s okay. Yuri can guide him. His blood thrums in time with the bass pounding through the walls, pounding in his chest. He can’t even properly hear it anymore, but he feels it, transcribes it into the motion of their bodies. Pushing with the knee behind him, pulling with the leg hooked tight over Roman’s shoulder, he holds Roman’s thigh back and fucks him to the beat. Otabek follows perfectly, angling until his cock drags across Yuri’s prostate on every thrust, mouthing along Yuri’s shoulder in stuttering motions as Yuri curses.

He’s so fucking _full,_ so thoroughly covered and held and buried. _Fuck yes._

The collarbone under Yuri’s tongue tastes nice. Salt tang on clean skin. He blanks out for a moment, and that’s the only clear point in the swirling chaos of skin, sweat, ceaseless rhythmic motion: his tongue and Roman’s clavicle having a wet little conversation.

Gradually the world expands again, just enough to encompass the whole experience of bodies and couch and delicious, overwhelming fucking, and he can feel the moment when Otabek gives himself over to sensation, letting his hips snap with abandon. Distract him enough and all his self-denial, all the self-effacing servility is burned away. Otabek in his raw form is tenacious, needy, forceful. When his lips reach the juncture of Yuri’s neck and shoulder, he bites mindlessly, and it’s a bright flare of sensation taking the exact shape of Yuri's desire.

 _How does he always know,_ Yuri wonders faintly in the one tiny corner of his brain not currently melting.

Maybe Alek is getting another bowjob, maybe not, but Yuri can’t care because he is dissolving into light and heat. Thank fuck for all the heavy limbs keeping him pinned here on the couch; he’s losing track of the rest of the world in the buzzing static and muffled bass thump coursing through him. He feels like he’s been soaked in butane, in kerosene, in every accelerant he's ever heard of and some he hasn't. There's an orgasm building at the root of his cock. He's going to pressurize past the limit and go off like a bomb.

One point in the not-blowjob column: Yuri is pretty sure he feels three mouths on him — Otabek sucking at his neck, Roman’s lips in his hair painting warm breath across his scalp, Alek’s tongue on his side. At least, he’s pretty sure that’s a tongue sliding shivery-hot-wet at the place where his shoulder blade covers his ribs. It’s getting hard to tell. There’s _so much._

Otabek’s cock drives into him relentlessly and he can feel his fuse burning down, every motion pushing him closer and closer to the inevitable explosion. He shoves into Roman’s ass, rolls his hips, lets the fire build and twist inside him as Roman cries out.

It’s Roman who succumbs first. He thrashes under Yuri, tossing his head, fingers locking with Yuri’s around his cock as he comes, spurting thick white between them. There’s no space; his come makes a slick puddle on his stomach, on Yuri’s. Smears on their hands.

Yuri fucks him through it. Nothing short of an actual firestorm could stop him now, and he has his doubts about even that. He’s _so fucking close._ Roman’s hole throbs around his cock, _tight, so tight, so hot,_ and Otabek nails his prostate again and that’s it, he ignites.

Ground zero of orgasms, and the whole room is in the blast radius. Yuri’s throat closes around the yowl trying to escape him. He can’t breathe, can’t force his eyes open, can’t control the bruising grip he has on Roman’s thigh or the way he seizes up on Otabek's cock. The limbs wrapped around him are the only things holding his pieces together. He’s breaking apart, burning from the inside out, nothing but flame and shrapnel and explosive force as he bucks mindlessly into Roman’s ass and fills up the condom.

Otabek makes a tiny, breathy sound in his ear — he always comes so quietly when he tops, Yuri’s never been able to figure out why but it’s amazing all the same because every single thing about Otabek is amazing — and shoves inside Yuri, deep as he can get. Holds there. Yuri’s so sensitive with his climax that he can feel each individual pulse as Otabek empties into him.

Not even profanity can convey how completely spent he feels. He’s… yeah. Gone. Wasted.

Holy fucking shit.

_Nope, that still doesn't cover it._

Yuri is in ten thousand pieces and not one of them has the wherewithal to move. He’s just going to… stay here for a while. Regroup.

Slowly.

Otabek is a welcome heaviness over him, the best kind of blanket, quiescent but for the swell of his chest as he catches his breath. His lips are very warm where they rest against the nape of Yuri's neck.

Fuck, Yuri's going to have to move his leg soon. His toes are starting to feel a little tingly and his hip is protesting the prolonged stress. There's a reason he only does this sort of thing in the off season.

With Herculean effort, he shifts under Otabek's weight, tips a little to the side to relieve some of the pressure on his hip and bends his knee further. His cock slips from Roman's body, drawing a groan from both of them, but the position is better. He can stay like that for a while longer.

There's something humid and smooth— it’s Alek, Yuri realizes, brushing soft kisses over his shoulder and petting down his side to his hip and back up along the one narrow strip that isn't covered by Otabek or Roman. Alek's probably the only one among them who has decent motor function right now. The touch skirts the border of too much, but it's so gentle that it never quite goes over.

Yuri feels like a cat. A great big contented cat. If he could purr, this would be the moment for it. He pushes his face into Roman's chest and soaks up the feeling of being surrounded.

Alek pulls in a sudden breath, his hands going still. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Yuri starts to ask, but then Roman hums in a pleased tone and Alek chokes on nothing and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that Roman got his mouth back on Alek's cock. If Yuri weren't so relaxed, he'd laugh.

“Yura…” Otabek murmurs, nuzzling his neck as Alek flops back into the leather embrace of the couch.

“Hmm?”

“Yura.”

“Beka,” Yuri replies and smiles to himself. Ha, Otabek sounds drunk. He gets so serious when he's like this, all solemn and earnest and full of ridiculous proclamations. Orgasms are good for him.

“Mmm. Yura.”

“That's my name, yeah. What?”

“Nothing. Just… mmm. Love you. Want to kiss you.”

 _Oh. Yes, please._ Roman's shifting under him anyway, chasing Alek's cock with his lips, so Yuri does his best to twist around and fit his mouth to Otabek's. Sorting out his limbs takes some effort but he manages to reach one arm around and stroke the back of Otabek's head, holding him close as they kiss. He's going to get a crick in his neck. He doesn't care.

One of the best fringe benefits of their nights spent in this tiny coat room: when he's all fucked out, Otabek will use actual words to express his desires. It's like he forgets to be shy and allows himself to be selfish. Yuri loves it. He licks into Otabek's mouth, his mind swept clean by the brush of their tongues.

He inhales sharply when Otabek shifts his hips and reminds him that they're still connected.

“Ah, shit, Beka—”

“Here,” Otabek says quietly, “let me…” He withdraws slowly, carefully, then sits up to pull off the condom and tie it. Yuri takes the opportunity to drag his leg back down. Fuck. He hopes he doesn't end up regretting those splits.

Then he thinks about the sparking lust his flexibility inspired and decides that he doesn't care if he ends up sore tomorrow. He'd going to carry their reactions with him for a long while.

Now that Yuri’s leg is no longer pinning down his chest, Roman rolls onto his side and shoves his entire face into Alek's crotch. This time, Yuri gives into the urge to laugh.

“Damn, you’re insatiable.”

Roman grunts in reply and Alek groans, flapping one limp hand.

Yuri pulls his legs underneath himself so he can sit up and lean back on Otabek. Because Otabek is a gentleman — seriously, the classiest guy Yuri knows — he cleans up Yuri, too, wiping Yuri’s messy hand clean with his discarded boxers and tossing both used condoms into the trash can tucked in the corner with perfect aim.

“Cuddle me,” Yuri demands. He knows it’s what Otabek wants and he wants it, too, and he isn’t sure if Otabek will do it without prompting while they have an audience. Yuri’s preferences vary from moment to moment on whether he wants their guests of the evening seeing him so tactile after the fact. Tonight, though, he doesn’t mind, and Roman and Alek are distracted with each other anyway.

Otabek’s arms are warm and strong around him.

“Aren’t they hot?” Yuri asks quietly, tipping his chin toward the other end of the couch.

“Very,” Otabek replies. “Your choice was excellent, as always. Was it what you wanted?”

“Oh yes. Still want to fuck you, though; don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

The sound that comes out of Otabek at that proclamation makes something in Yuri’s chest perk up and take eager notice. Also something between his legs, though it’s still too soon for more than just thinking about it. But oh, when they get home he’s going to tear Otabek down to the foundation and then build him back up again with pure pleasure.

Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because Otabek gives him this look and it’s— _goddamn._ It goes straight to his libido. Watching Otabek make real expressions is somehow so incredibly attractive. Yuri feels stupid for it. Just a look? Really? It’s a smile, not a striptease. And yet he throbs with need every time.

Suddenly they can’t be home fast enough. Yuri has _plans._

He squeezes Otabek’s arm, then reaches for the pile of clothes on the floor and starts pulling his own back on. Alek groans, loud over the background of club noise drifting through the wall; Roman is still face-first in his lap. They’ll probably be here for a while.

“Are you, _ah—_ are you leaving?” Alek asks, prying his eyes open when Yuri stands.

Yuri leans down and sucks a sloppy kiss into Roman’s bare hip. “Yep. Thanks for the fun; so happy to have brought you two together. Now if you'll excuse us, I need to go fuck this guy over an armchair.”

Yuri is greedy. That’s not news. He wants to hear Otabek lose all his control. If he puts his mind to it, he can coax these incredible sounds out of him, broken and needy and overwhelmed. They’re all the more satisfying for how much Otabek makes him work for them.

He pulls their jackets from the coat rack — black leather for Otabek, burgundy for himself — then shuffles a now-dressed Otabek out of the room and down the hallway toward the back exit. The motorcycle is waiting for them in the lot.

He can’t wait to get back to their apartment. They don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow.

He’s going to make Otabek _scream._

 

 


End file.
